just as lavelle paused at the foot of the hill and waved his hand, rowgowskii looked up from where he was cutting turf on the eastern slope. unconsciously his hand went to his flattened nose. it was an action which invariably had come to accompany any glance which had lavelle for its objective.
emily was hidden from his view, but the russian could imagine her standing up there on the crest answering lavelle's signal. he knew well, too, the light there must be in her eyes. he had surprised it there many times in the preceding three or four days, even as she had startled the animal lust in his.
rowgowskii dropped the piece of metal which he was using for a cutting tool. it was part of the boat's air tank with which lavelle had planned to repair the damage done by the boulder. his gaze followed the two men crossing the meadow until he saw chang stop suddenly and look back. he started as if the chinaman had the power of reading his thoughts. a guilty conscience is ever the quick prey of an honest eye. with much show of industry he picked up his cutter and resumed the stripping of turf. this activity lasted but a minute. then, his gaze wandered around the empty sea, only to return to the two men below.
in the second that the russian's eyes picked them up again a menacing oscillation passed through the earth and brought him in terror off his knees. he saw the chinaman pitch headlong out of sight. the next second whipped lavelle from his view. the palm tree remained the single object in the meadow.
rowgowskii hesitated a moment, hearkening for a sound from above him or from the meadow. the silence was unbroken save by the purr of the morning breeze.
with the sneak of a stalking panther in his tread he darted around to the southern slope. a second's pause, a flashing glance behind to reassure himself that "the shadow" and the yellow man were, indeed, gone, and he sprang up the hill.
chapter xvii
emily held lavelle and chang in view until they were halfway to the tree and the chinaman halted and looked back. it was as if the giant had flashed a message to her. her heart gave a throb of apprehension. her breath caught in her throat. her limbs trembled. she realized that she was alone on the hill with rowgowskii. only her own soul knew her repugnance of this man which had grown with the hours since they had come to the island.
even as her mind bore the thought emily became ashamed of her trepidation and self-consciousness. it was unworthy of the kind of woman that lavelle's fearlessness of soul and fortitude made her desire to be.
mortified, and with a flush mounting her cheeks at what she considered her mean selfishness, she turned from the meadow and the stretch of ocean southward. she walked across the hilltop. north, east, and west her gaze met an empty blue expanse of water. the hill oscillated and she swayed with it unconscious of the motion. her attention was held by the glint of a white wing high against the cloudless azure sky to the northward where a frigate bird went seeking a mate.
"oh, if we but had your wings!" she exclaimed.
"but we haven't," whispered a voice close to her ear. with the words an evil, burning breath struck her cheek and rowgowskii's two powerful arms encircled her.
at the touch there leaped to life in emily that furious strength which has been given to women to defend themselves or their offspring from besoiling or destroying hands.
with a shriek she twisted herself in the brute's clasp and hurled him from her, but not before he had succeeded in crushing his hot, sensuous lips against her throat. she struck him in the face with both hands clenched. landing where lavelle had smashed him in the boat the morning after the wreck of the cambodia, the blows drew blood and swept him from his feet. he went over backward and, falling, carried with him the boat mast which was stepped in the center of the hilltop for a signal staff.
sending a piercing shriek toward the meadow, emily ran toward the southern slope. rowgowskii staggered up in her path with outstretched arms as if to stop her. he hesitated and stepped aside. the unaccountable action arrested emily.
"go on yelling!" he said wrathfully. "there is nobody to hear. we are alone—you and i."
a sight of the meadow confirmed his words. lavelle and chang were not there.
the russian laughed as she faced him helplessly and incredulously, her strength, for the moment, gone from her. she had no distinct thought. the capacity of thinking and feeling seemed to have never been.
"they went like that," the brute went on with a snap of his fingers. "just as we are going to go—in a—in a very little while." a lingering quaver went through the hill. he started cravenly. "feel that, eh? the end is very near."
emily was silent. her gaze darted away from her torturer and around the sea. it came to rest for the smallest part of a second on the western edge of the hill. determination was born of the thought which the glance suggested. here was a means of escape.
the cliff was perhaps an hundred feet from where she stood. if she could only get over there a step would carry her into the presence of her god unashamed. her purpose was formed. there was nothing left for which she cared to live. the camp fire was between her and her goal, but she heeded it not.
rowgowskii's gaze, following every movement of the glorious figure of womanhood before him, set the fires of his fiendishness flaming in new desire. he advanced a step in front of her. she retreated a step.
"i wonder if you would have treated lavelle this way if he had come to love you? eh?"
there was no answer for him, but emily's lips moved in murmuring what her numbed senses could recall of lavelle's prayer for grace.
"would you have treated him this way? tell me, ma beauté," he leered. he took another step toward her. again she retreated. still advancing, the passion of the brute in his eyes scorching her, he said:
"death will not be so unpleasant. you are very beautiful. you——"
his voice broke in a stammer. a piece of burning sod rolled out of the fire behind his prey.
"look out!" he cried.
emily gave no heed. she put one foot on the sod and smoke curled up where it burned through the sole of the canvas sandal which chang had made for her. then she lifted the other foot beside it.
nor did this woman cry out in pain nor a feature so much as wince. an immortal glory was in her countenance. the look she bent on the man before her sent him back, cowering in fear and awe.
